[An open journal happens to catch an amazing Christmas miracle: Good Saint Nicholas himself, big red suit and all, sneaking through the living room of House 7! A couple of weeks EARLY, by all accounts!
Oh ring the bells! and eat a candy cane! and kiss that girl under the mistletoe! and...
Wait. That's not Santa. That's...an aggravated Scotsman.]
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Which house would you like it delivered to, sir?
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He knocks on the door, blowing on his hands to warm them up, the bottle tucked beneath his arm.]
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[Sheesh, Scotty--you should have asked for some clothes, too.]
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Thanks!
I see you found something else warm to wear; that's good, right?
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[He holds up the bottle.] Your whiskey, sir.
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[He takes down a 1-quart measuring cup and one of those Nalgene bottles, probably one of Buffy's from when she goes out jogging.]
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Actually, I'm not sure I should have more than a sip. I'm technically on the job. [Kinda.]
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What are we toasting to?
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